


Begin Again

by slagsmacker



Category: Hanna (2011)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slagsmacker/pseuds/slagsmacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five stories about being Hanna.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Begin Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aragons/gifts).



> This story is composed of five vignettes; to clarify - they are not in chronological order, but they are thematically linked. The quote at the top is from, 'Hanna’s Theme (Vocal),' found on the film’s OST, which I highly recommend. Unless my subconscious is playing tricks on me, the tale in the middle is original. However there are at least four other fairytales referenced within (spot ’em all, you win a prize!) and, in the grand tradition of story telling, I am just borrowing them. There is no more sex/sexuality in this than the movie, but if underage kissing is not your cup of tea I would move on.

 

 __

 _

And all that is and ever was, begin again, begin again

 

_   
__

**The Tower**

Dear Hanna aka the Life Ruiner,

Well I hope you’re happy with yourself. I hope you realize this is all your fault. I could be in Lisle, chatting up some _gorgeous_ French guy (did you know, historically speaking, European men had to work on the land from a younger age, so that’s why they’re fitter than English boys. It’s just a fact.) but instead I’m stuck in this poxy hole, twirling my hair around my finger.

This house is cold and it echoes and, worst of all, it’s in the middle of fucking nowhere. I said that to my Dad and he said, given the circumstances, it was probably better to be out of the way. Mum, of course, didn’t tell me off for swearing. Stupid bitch.

You know, what’s the worst thing? This house doesn’t even have an internet connection. I didn’t think that was possible. I mean M.I.A grew up without an internet connection, but that’s because she lived in _Sri Lanka,_ for God’s sake.

So yeah, no internet, stuck here writing a letter. Who even writes letters anymore?

I don’t know where to send it.

Yours Tragically,

Soph aka bored out of her fucking mind.

 

***

 

Dear Hanna aka 007,

So how the hell did this happen anyway? I mean I knew you were a bit of a freak, but I didn’t expect to nearly get killed for my trouble. I should really stop being such an accommodating personality. It can’t be helped though, it’s just my nature. Mum supports the theory of nurture over nature, but that can’t be true - if it was I’d be wearing a kaftan and not believe in makeup. I‘d rather die.

You know how celebrities like Madonna keep adopting little foreign babies? Well I reckon I am a bit like that. If I see a stray, I’ll pick it up. Don’t worry though, you were my favourite.

That doesn’t mean I’m not mad. Friends aren’t supposed to keep secrets from one another, and I get the feeling (call it woman’s intuition, or something - I used the word intuition in an essay last term and the teacher nearly shit herself with joy) you were keeping a lot of secrets. Are you a spy then? Or a trained assassin, like in that movie where Natalie Portman is still jailbait? Maybe you’re a robot.

On second thoughts I don’t think I want to know. It was hard enough pretending to be thick when that woman (her teeth were so white they were unnatural. I’m all for teeth whitening, I don’t want to look gross and British, but hers, if you ask me, were a bit much) kept asking where you were.

I’m still not speaking to my brother for telling on you.

Do you think I should cut my hair?

Yours curiously,

Soph aka short hair is _so_ in this season.

 

***

 

Dear Hanna aka My Imaginary BFF,

Do you get nightmares? I do. That’s your fault, btw.

My Mum says I should write it all down, that writing is cathartic. I left before she could tell me the _riveting_ Greek mythology behind catharsis, so she just had a fight with my Dad instead. They fight a lot now (she thinks we’ve been hiding long enough, he doesn’t. I agree with Mum, cause _god_ this place sucks, but that doesn’t mean I’m not shit scared like Dad).

That’s your fault too.

Anyway _,_ here we go….

I keep dreaming that instead of letting us leave (something to do with being British citizens, ‘let the crumbs scatter,‘ the woman said to the man in the _rank_ tracksuit.) they lock us all in one container. The container gets smaller and smaller and we can see you through a crack, but you have your back turned. You’ve got a tutu on, like that time we snuck out, but it’s gold and in the dream I’m crying because that’s _so_ last season’s look.

So yeah, analyse that, biatch.

Yours sleepily,

Soph aka get back to me with the results.

 

***

 

Dear Hanna,

Is that even your real name?

 

 ****

 **Two Dancing Princesses**

Sophie tries not to hop impatiently on her toes, she’s not a stupid child anymore, but Hanna is being _so_ incredibly slow about getting out of the van apres dinner. Sophie tries to be understanding, she knows Hanna’s Mum is dead after all, still it’s embarrassing how much the other girl hangs off her stupid family’s every word.

Finally she loses patience and just grabs the Hanna‘s hand,

“Come on,” she commands, pulling them both towards the parking lot where the boys will be waiting,

Sophie has the feeling they could run very fast, but their joined arms are taut as Hanna lingers behind.

“What about your Mother and your Father?” Hanna questions in a strange, lilting accent.

Sophie rolls her eyes,

“Oh don’t worry about them. I slipped them some extra wine during dinner. They get _super_ randy when they’re drunk. It’s _disgusting.”_

Hanna looks confused. Sophie tuts. She thought Germany had progressive sex education. She certainly doesn’t have time to explain as she pushes them both through the prickly undergrowth skirting the edge of the campsite.

Once they are free, Sophie drops Hanna’s hand in order to check her own outfit for tears. Hanna just stands and watches. She has a cool, placid gaze which really should be creepy. Sophie finds it kinda fascinating.

“Come here,” she mutters, slightly less confident in the heavy night air, and pulls a tangled twig from the depths of Hanna’s skirt.

At first, Sophie had hated the tutu Hanna selected from the very bottom of her stuff. Looking like the friend of a fairytale princess defo doesn’t scream, ‘snog me now.’ Still, with the tulle fanning around her lean frame, Hanna looks pretty, ethereal even. It’s all a bit _Romeo and Juliet_. The modern version of course, the one with guns and bikes.

Sophie re-positions Hanna, almost like a doll, then wrestles a compact out of her impractically tiny purse.

"Hold this, it's MAC, I'm going to do your eyes, you'll look amazing, trust me,"

 _Trust Me._ Hanna has done little else since becoming Sophie’s weird and wonderful pet.

As Sophie sweeps some powder onto a brush, Hanna flips the compact over, reading the words on the back in a lightly inflected tone,

"Silver Pear eye shadow,"

 _Good she can read,_ Sophie thinks. It would suck to have a best friend who was illiterate as well as socially retarded.

Hanna doesn't continue reading (thank god, cause that would mean going through a list of ingredients) so Sophie is left to stare into her eyes. They are pale blue, the same as a stretch of sky with nothing in it.

“You have pretty eyes.” Sophie says,

“Thank you,” Hanna replies, then flicks them closed like a switchblade.

Sophie goes to work, slagging off her Mum’s anti-makeup stance the entire time.

“Ta-da,” she announces with a proud flourish once she is done.

Hanna does not ask to see, but clasps Sophie’s wrist, presumably in deep gratitude. Her grip is tight, and a finger moves knife sharp over Sophie’s knuckles.

For once in her teenage life, Sophie forgets all about boys. She thinks Hanna is one thing, but, really, this girl could be anyone.

 

 ****

 **Hanna**

Once upon a time there lived a little girl amongst the snow.

A wild animal in hiding, her skin was pale and smooth, her eyes as cool as ice. Unfortunately her hair was gold, spun like sunlight behind her. The little girl had to wear a hood for camouflage. Her Father taught her that.

Her Father taught her a lot of things. How to run, how to hunt, how to kill. Her Father taught her the tricks of the family trade.

Like many a creature, the little girl had a curse upon her head. Try as she might, she could not see her own reflection. When she was younger, curled into the belly of her Father’s warmth, this did not unsettle her. However, as time passed, and bones unfurled during the night, curiosity brushed against the little girl’s skull. She wanted to know. For how could a Princess find a Prince if she could not make herself beautiful in the mirror?

One day the little girl was riding on a fierce current of arctic wind. She was bearing down upon a deer, tawny and terrified, when she stumbled and fell. Laced with the warmth of her body, the snow near the little girl’s face became shining glass. The little girl stared in wonder as an image appeared before her. She reached for the mouth, shimmering and seductive, but the reflection turned to water and flowed through her fingertips.

The little girl sped all the way home and burst into the lone, log cabin she shared with her Father. Paying little attention to a carcass of meat, sliced and raw on their table, the little girl uttered words he had taught since birth,

“I am ready.”

As soon as she spoke, the sky began to change.

The cabin crackled. Her vision flickered and her face burned.

The girl realized the snow was on fire.

At her feet was a pool of glowing liquid. Before the water could evaporate, the girl scooped some up, pressing it against her eyes. She tried to see herself, but the water was hot and smarted red.

Amidst the flames an orange animal danced. It was the girl’s Father, turned into a sleek, amber Fox. His feet were clever, but his eyes were sad. As he twisted and turned, the Fox howled,

“Remember Hanna, be yourself.”

The girl had blood tracking down her cheeks,

“But who is she?”

 ****

 **Dry Land**

Hanna comes to with a start. Her feet are tucked underneath someone else, prickling as though a snow drift is blanketing them. For a second she does not know where she is. Her body is taut and tense - then consciousness, like all of Morocco‘s noise, slams into her brain, and she recognizes Sophie.

Hanna tries to remember a word for the pain in her feet. She shifts and thinks it is interesting that Sophie is not frightened when the movement wakes her up enough to grumble,

“Oh my god, lie still,”

“My feet hurt,” Hanna states simply.

Sophie nods, her head leaning to rest against a tapered shoulder, her voice pretending she understands the whole world,

“Pins and needles,” she states authoritatively. _Pins and needles_ , Hanna catalogues.

“Just move your toes,” Sophie advises, “my dance teacher used to make us stand still until it went away, but I reckon he was a total peeping tom, I mean what kind of guy wants to work with little girls in leotards? A total paedo, that‘s who.”

Sophie’s words babble like a stream against Hanna’s neck. Her breath is warm and wet. Hanna imagines dancing, as they did before the boys arrived. She moves her toes experimentally. Pain shoots up one leg and Sophie jumps as though she felt it too.

“Watch it, I’m ticklish you freak!”

Hanna’s feet scrape across Sophie’s sole, towards her painted toenails. They sting with the beginning of sensation and the feeling matches the noise of Sophie’s half pained squeal,

“Stop it!” she insists, flipping Hanna onto her back.

Hanna does not like to be pinned, but Sophie said she was her friend.

From underneath the blanket of another body, Hanna can tell Sophie’s brother has woken up. His breath has become irregular, he is watching them like a fawn in the undergrowth. She becomes still and wary. Amidst the silence, Sophie pulls her bottom lip, round and smooth like a polished rock, in between her stark, white teeth,

“You’re such a lesbo,” she accuses.

Then she moves her mouth to meet Hanna‘s.

Like before, there is happiness and heaviness. The paper crinkled beneath Hanna’s pillow may say she is abnormal, but that also means special. Sophie presses down and the tingle in Hanna’s toes rolls throughout her body like the sea. Before a noise can crash through her spit soaked lips, Sophie pulls away.

“My feet don’t hurt anymore,” Hanna whispers.

 

 ****

 **Quest**

Despite Marissa’s End, there is no immediate happily ever after.

Instead of waiting, Hanna wanders backwards through her own life. As a hunter she has been taught not to trace her own steps. She does not want to be a hunter anymore, and she does not want to be lost.

First she finds her Father, his body rotating on a roundabout. It is easy to forgive him whilst he is spinning so aimlessly. She covers her fingertips with the edge of his jacket, then nudges him until his knuckles no longer scrape along the ground on every turn.

Next, she breaks into a foreign Container Park. It is a dark night so she can barely see the bracelet on her left wrist fraying against the wire link fence.

Hanna tracks a trail of barely visible footprints until she finds where the family must have been kept. She examines the four containers in turn, tracing each wall with her palm and smelling carefully for blood.

In the third unit she finds marks. They are near the ground and etched so lightly into red paint, that the metal underneath barely shines through.

One is a question mark, an overly angular heart replacing the usual dot.

One says _Soph nd Hanna 4eva_ , the previous punctuation lurking too close.

The last simply states, _Freedom!!! 08/2011._

Hanna stands and stretches. She compiles a new puzzle of herself,

“My name is Hanna. I am thirteen years old. I was born in a lab. I did not know my Mother. My Father raised me as well as he could. My friend is called Sophie, we are both alive…”

Hanna surveys the maze around her. She moves on.

　

 


End file.
